


I Wanted To Be With You Alone, And Talk About The Weather

by junkster



Category: Duran Duran
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Storms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-09
Updated: 2012-12-09
Packaged: 2017-11-20 17:53:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/588111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junkster/pseuds/junkster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Recording 'Seven and the Ragged Tiger' on the beautiful remote island of Montserrat is supposed to focus their minds on the music, not the arguments, but there's trouble in paradise. John and Roger find some peace in a storm, and in each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Wanted To Be With You Alone, And Talk About The Weather

**Author's Note:**

> Just a short plot-what-plot bit of John looking after Roger, the sensitive soul. 
> 
>  
> 
> _(This is a work of pure fiction - no events depicted within are true to life (as far as the author is aware), and this is written simply out of love.)_

It’s almost midnight when a flurry of wind scatters a tattoo of rain against the window, catching John’s drifting attention. It’s the first sound he’s heard since everyone left the studio, having managed to accomplish nothing except alienate and anger each other to the point of storming out. Roger had left first, but that had been before things had even really heated up - he’d just stood up from behind his kit, pushing a hand through his sweat-damp hair, and slipped away without anyone really noticing, fingers pressing into his temples. Half an hour later, after the slagging match had _really_ kicked in, Simon had stalked off with a dismissive, resigned wave of his hand. By that point John wasn’t even sure he could remember what they were arguing about, but, stubborn as ever, Andy thought he was right and Nick thought he was right, and there was no reconciling them. And that was how John ended up on his own, faintly dazed from the way things had escalated.

His fingers are tired now, the pads raw and lined from his strings, and there’s a resounding, low hum coming from the amp he’s sitting on. He looks down at his bass, across to the keyboards, the drum kit, then the microphone, all abandoned. Andy’s taken his guitar with him, probably to go and play his anger out down a dark corridor somewhere in the depths of the studio.

Forcing himself to get to his feet, he wanders over to the door that leads out towards the swimming pool outside, wanting to see the storm on the usually still surface of the water. As he comes to the third set of doors, wide, clear glass you could almost walk right into, he stops still and stares out at the garden for a moment, surprised. Sliding open the door, he braces himself and steps out into the rain. He's soaked within seconds, the heavy, warm drops falling fast and hard from the purple-grey clouds above.

The ocean is crashing against the beach in the distance below, dramatic, booming swirls of water on sand and rock that mingle with the constant hammer of rain. The swimming pool’s like a black, writhing, fathomless pit in the darkness, so different to the crystal blue allure it has in the heat of the daytime. John walks around its edge carefully, feet bare on the warm stone.

Roger is standing with his hands wrapped around the top of the wall where the land drops away, leaning out towards the beach with his eyes closed, his t-shirt clinging wet and heavy to his skin. The hugeness of the ocean and the remoteness of the place makes him seem so small, so vulnerable in the midst of the storm.

For a moment John wonders if he’s crying; wonders if he’d be able to tell if he was. But there’s no telltale shake of shoulders or hitch of breath. He just stands and grips that rough stone like it’s grounding him and turns his head when he senses John’s presence.

“What’re you _doing_ out here?” John asks, tugging at the wet sleeves of his shirt before pushing them up to his elbows, out of the way.

Roger pushes a hand through his hair, slicking it back out of his eyes, his eyelashes wet and glistening. “Getting some air,” he says quietly, gaze dancing across John’s face as though checking to see whether he’s come to harass him or not.

“ _Air_?” John says with a laugh, turning to face the ocean and leaning forwards with him, their shoulders pressed together. “More like a bath.”

Roger manages a small, crooked smile, but the effort it takes just about breaks John’s heart.

“Are you alright?” he asks, swiping his fringe out of his eyes, the warm rain soaking him to the bone. “Looked like you had a headache earlier.”

“Just a headache,” Roger agrees distractedly, and John is relieved to see that the pinched look of discomfort he’d had earlier has eased away at least.

“This is amazing, isn’t it?” he remarks, looking out towards the ocean. “This morning it was thirty degrees and sunny, and now it’s like Birmingham on a bad day. Or a _good_ day, even.”

Roger nods and admits quietly: “I quite like it.”

John glances across at him, dismayed to hear a familiar tinge of homesickness. “You’re not supposed to long for Nechells, you know. It’s a fucking war zone.”

Roger smiles, a little more genuine this time. “Yeah.”

“Shitty tower blocks, the worst schools in the city,” John ticks off on his fingers. “The highest crime, poverty and unemployment rates...”

“Yeah.”

John shakes his head fondly. “Boy from the wrong side of the tracks, that’s what you are. D’you know my mum thought I’d made friends with some kind of criminal when I first told her about you? 'Til she found out what a soft clod you are, anyway.”

“It’s not _that_ bad,” Roger says wryly, watching water run off the backs of his hands. “It’s home, anyway.”

“You’d rather be there than here? An island paradise?”

Roger pauses for a moment before admitting: “No. But it’s not been that much fun here, the last couple of days.”

“I know,” John says ruefully. “It’ll get better though. You know it always does.”

“We argue about the stupidest things.”

“Haven’t we always?”

“Not this much.”

And it’s true. So true that John has no idea what else to say, so he just slides a hand onto Roger’s back and strokes up and down slowly, feeling the heat of his skin through the wet cotton that clings to him.

Deja vu hits him suddenly and solidly in the chest with all of its usual lack of finesse, transporting him back four years to a December night in Birmingham. The night that Roger’s punk friends, who had really, _really_ hated John and Nick, had decided to show him just what they thought of him befriending two arty pretty boys. He’d gone out for a fag break in the Rum Runner’s alley and not reappeared, Paul cursing him to high heaven and back and informing John that if he didn’t have a bloody good excuse he could kiss his job goodbye.

John had grabbed Nick when the club closed and it hadn’t taken them long to find him, a dark shape on the bridge over the canal, leaning heavily on the railings and staring down at the water, soaked to the skin by ice cold winter rain. Nick had tried to prise his frozen fingers away from the metal bars and he’d just crumpled, slumping down to his knees and scaring the shit out of both of them. That’s when they’d realised what had happened, that the wetness on his face was blood, not rain. That’s when they’d realised that Roger’s ‘friends’, kids he’d known since primary school, were a bunch of violent, closed-minded idiots. And that’s when they’d realised they had to steal him away, as far away as possible.

John remembers that night like it was yesterday, that grotty, seedy display of inhumanity. The way Roger’s body had felt so small under his hands, just like it does now, like the weight of the world is pressing down on his shoulders.

Music starts drifting out of the studio suddenly, the lilting, melancholic melody of Nick’s latest creation, atmospheric amongst the sounds of the storm, rousing John from his memories. And gradually, slowly rising in to swirl with the keyboards there’s a guitar accompaniment. John feels a knot in his stomach unwind at that harmonic union of sounds, and it eases even more when moments later Simon’s singing with them, soft emotion in his voice. It sounds like they’re apologising to each other without having to speak.

It sounds beautiful.

Standing up straight, he moves his hand from Roger’s back to his wrist, squeezing lightly to get his attention, turning to face him properly.

“Dance with me?” he asks softly, sliding his left hand against Roger’s right to link their fingers together.

Roger’s eyes are liquid black and unfathomable and he doesn’t laugh at the request, doesn’t even smile, just lets John wind the other arm around his waist and lead him into a kind of tango-waltz hybrid along the edge of the pool, slow and graceful, their eyes fixed on each other. As they reach the corner, John pauses but keeps hold of him, leaning in to press their foreheads together, watching as Roger’s eyes flicker shut, raindrops flowing over his cheeks.

“It’ll be okay,” John tells him, his voice a low, hypnotic thing. “You know we’ll be okay.”

“Okay,” Roger agrees, a soft exhale that’s almost lost on the wind.

John puts his arms around Roger’s waist and Roger hooks his around John’s neck, and they press in close together, swaying as the rain comes down on them. Roger moves to rest his head against John’s shoulder and John feels the most intense twist of protectiveness in his chest.

“Dancing at midnight on a beautiful, remote island,” he muses quietly. “Romantic, isn’t it?”

“Even soaked to the skin?” Roger sighs against him.

“Just part of the atmosphere.”

“Sorry I’m not a leggy blonde, then, Johnny.”

“Hell, the only leggy blonde around here's Charlie, anyway.”

Roger smiles at that, John can feel it, but his forehead feels hot where it presses against his shoulder, and John wonders not for the first time that night if he’s coming down with something. He pulls back just enough to look down into those dark eyes.

“You look cold,” he realises, running the backs of his fingers across Roger’s stubbled jaw.

“I’m not cold,” Roger responds softly, just as a shiver makes him shake in John’s arms.

John leans in and down and kisses him lightly, and he _is_ cold, his lips are cold, and John licks the rain from them gently and just keeps on kissing him until they’re warm against his.

In the background Simon is singing something desperate and plaintive, and a shiver rolls down John’s spine at the sound. It’s calling to him, _they’re_ calling to him, and he can tell from the tension in Roger’s shoulders that he feels it too. He has to close his eyes as their kiss breaks apart, Roger’s warm breaths ghosting against his throat, tilting his head back to feel the rain, cool now against his skin.

Roger unwinds his arms from around John’s neck and starts sliding out of his wet shirt, tugging it, tight and soaked over his head. John smiles, a rush of euphoria at the music, the storm, the wildness of being right there in the middle of it, that electric feeling of something building, something coming. He peels off his own shirt and slips it off over his shoulders, slinging it in the direction of the door to the studio, then reaches out to press his hands flat against Roger’s bare chest, wanting to feel the heat of his wet skin and the heady rhythm of his heart underneath.

He slides his hands slowly up that stubble-rough throat until he’s cupping Roger’s jaw on either side, leaning back in for another soft, lingering kiss before holding a hand out, long and slender.

“Come on,” he encourages warmly, smiling as Roger’s fingers close around his and leading him back towards the open door. “They need us.”


End file.
